“Stella, I’m 37. What a completely lame age to be.” I said out loud to my golden retriever this morning as I slurped shrimp-flavored ramen for breakfast at 11:15am.
I stayed up really late last night migrating images from my personal Instagram with the business name to a business Instagram with the business name per the instruction of my cousin slash best friend slash marketing consultant, Rachel Hyde. She thinks my personal life is too tied up in the business and it’s difficult for first-time clients to navigate the social media platforms. She’s right.
So, to completely defy all reason, I have decided to use this particular platform to … tell a completely hypothetical story about something that could happen to anyone (it’s totally about me.)
A stand-out, sure fire way to tell that you’re plummeting into the depths of mid-life crisis is looking in the mirror to find that the head of hair that frames your face is grey. NOT the natural kind that you get from living a pure and decent life but a grey that started out grey but was covered up with brown followed by a more striking black, stripped down to a ginger color, tortured into an ashish blond, covered in royal purple, faded to a yellowish lavender, bleached of all remaining dignity and strength, tapped, foiled and woven into a frenzy, coaxed back into a periwinkle color and finally DYED grey for the low, low price of roughly $1,300. THAT is when you re-evaluate your beauty standards. And your life.
A random, still hypothetical, 37-year-old might note that this is also the year of the surprise chin hair and cleavage wrinkles. Basically, your thirties is a total shit decade for beauty, the latter portion, more so. Thirty-seven isn’t the new anything except maybe the new thirty-six, touting the motivational cheer “HERE WE GO… again.”
Forty proclaims to be the new twenty! The age of… DELUSION? Romantic fancy? An impassioned interest in liquor and recreational drug use?? I think I’ll take 60 to go please. Retirement, travel, elastic waistbands and reasonable shoes…this is a life I can get into.
So, what is to be done with this initial stomach-churning nosedive of a descent that plummets you inevitably toward your ultimate demise that we very dismally refer to as your late 30’s??
FIGHT THAT FIERY TUMOR OF FORTY-EIGHT MONTHS WITH CREAMS AND INJECTIONS, PLUCKING AND SWEATING, BLEACHING AND DAILY SHOWER CRIES?
Maybe you would prefer to despair and relegate yourself to the downward spiral that is your everything, reading piles of self-help books and trying to eat clean (sounds yummy but it’s NOT). *sad trombone
!!! DING DING DING !!!
Maintain a healthy balance of “SCREW THIS JIVE, WE’RE EFFING FABULOUS!”
HANDLE those dirty thirties with a sassy group of bomb-diggity Hot Tomato ladies that have already subscribed to this life policy! Get a prescription for shopping trips, some Parlor rehabilitation and vodka shots as needed! Get ready for a little “Woooo giiiirl” and a MOJO injection! Top it all off with one big dose of you-can’t-HANDLE-this HOTNESS and Blamo! You are a card-carrying GDHT!!!!
No seriously. Message me. I stay up late.